The Practice of Deception
by pebbles66
Summary: The year is 1894, and Holmes and Watson find themselves facing new challenges after Holmes' return. Rated for safety.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first multi-chapter offering. Thanks to KCS and Pompey for all their encouragement!

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The year 1894 was a momentous time in the career of my friend Sherlock Holmes and, by association, for me. It was a year of many unusual and unexpected happenings. First and foremost, of course, was Holmes' miraculous return from the dead. Never in a thousand years would I have expected such a thing, familiar though I was with his powers of deception and flair for the dramatic, and the shock I felt upon seeing him again was echoed by many others.

As soon as the word got out, congratulatory telegrams and letters, along with requests for his aid, began to arrive each day, until soon the carpet of the sitting room was covered in a veritable snowfall of paper.

All of London, and indeed, most of England, rang for weeks with news of the return of Sherlock Holmes. The adoring public was so enamored of this occurrence that they clamored for news of his doings, and our flat in Baker Street was besieged with any number of eager and industrious reporters, who diligently attempted to interview any and all passersby.

I soon found myself accosted on the streets by myriad representatives of the press, all plying me with requests for an interview, which I, of course, refused. Not to be deterred, the reporters turned to other means, and presently the morning and evening papers featured exclusive interviews with such illustrious and knowledgeable persons as our milkman, the greengrocer from down the street, and the woman who helped Mrs. Hudson with the laundry.

For the most part, our neighbours on Baker Street tolerated this invasion of their privacy, but after being forced to push their way through throngs of people every time they left their homes and businesses, they began to rise up en masse and revolt against their mistreatment. Holmes found himself besieged by both our neighbours and reporters, all calling for satisfaction.

For years he had steadfastly refused to be interviewed by any of the papers, preferring instead to let all acclaim for his solved cases go to the official representatives of Scotland Yard. But when our long-suffering landlady was very nearly trampled underfoot by a veritable army of pencil-waving reporters when she attempted to leave the house, he felt that matters had come to a head and must be addressed.

As such, Holmes agreed to give a short interview to The Times, in an effort to both belay the public's unending curiosity, and to persuade the reporters to leave us in peace once more. This had greatly surprised me; his previous habitual reticence would have made the very idea of speaking with reporters inconceivable. But Holmes had changed in many ways during his absence; just how much was brought home forcefully to me that autumn.

Some weeks after the completion of the affair at Camden House, I had, at Holmes' request, sold my practice and returned to live at Baker Street. I had, however, decided to continue to serve as locum for several physicians, including Anstruther, my former neighbor in Kensington. Though I missed many of my old patients and the routine of having my own practice, it had been no difficult decision to make. The house in Kensington held too many memories of my recently-deceased wife, and I found it painful to continue to live there alone. Even before Holmes' return I had contemplated selling the practice, and even possibly leaving London to start out again on my own. Holmes' return made this option unnecessary, and I was quite glad to be back in my old bachelor digs once again.

Mrs. Hudson, too, was delighted to have us both back, and in the ensuing weeks the three of us began to settle into a comfortable and familiar routine. The atmosphere in Baker Street felt much as it had years earlier, before my marriage and departure. Indeed, it felt at times as if the ensuing years since Holmes' disappearance had never happened.

As a result of the many requests for help Sherlock Holmes received during the first months after his return, we had begun to be extremely busy. It was a rare morning that less than five such requests arrived in the morning post, and we found ourselves in the unaccustomed position of having to turn down cases. The cases we were able to accept ranged in importance from petty burglaries to affairs of national importance, and often obliged us to travel to all parts of England, and occasionally, the continent.

In addition to the cresting wave of problems brought to our joint attention, that summer also brought about an unusual opportunity for me personally.

I had gone to St. Bart's one morning in early August to fulfill my duties as locum, leaving Holmes to tackle his interview alone, a task which he was very much dreading, and which would have been quite entertaining for me to witness. As such, I'm certain that Holmes was relieved that I was busy and would not be present.

I proceeded through my morning rounds in short order. After writing up the cases I had seen and intervening in a small incident between two patients who desperately needed separate rooms, I was preparing to continue my afternoon rounds, when I happened upon a former colleague of mine, Dr. Oliver Sykes. I had not seen the man in many years, and my surprise at seeing him at the hospital was compounded when he informed me that he had actually been looking for me.

"Looking for me?" I asked. "Whatever for? And how did you even know I'd be here today?" Dr. Sykes was a large man, quite tall, with big square hands, a florid face, and an imposing manner which made him seem quite intimidating. I found myself in the slightly awkward position of having to crane my neck uncomfortably in order to look up at him as we chatted in the halls.

"I'd heard that you were working here. I have been asking after you for the last few days, and was told that this was your usual day to do rounds. I have a proposition for you, Watson, which would be of great service to me and of great benefit to you," he answered, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"I am most intrigued! What do you have in mind?" My curiosity was greatly aroused, but I still had several patients to see before my day was finished. Dr. Sykes and I decided to meet at a nearby pub to discuss this proposition after I had completed my rounds.

The rest of my day passed uneventfully and I arrived at the pub at the appointed time to find Sykes already there, sitting in a quiet corner and sipping at a mug of ale. Giving the barkeep my order, I sat down across from him to hear what he proposed.

"Now, Sykes, why exactly were you looking for me, and what did you have in mind?" I confess that I was completely at a loss as to why he would even think of me for whatever he had in mind, as we had not been particularly friendly in school. Dr. Sykes had been two years ahead of me in classes, large and gruff even then, and had been one of those students who tended to look down upon anyone younger, and in less favorable financial situation, than they. All that seemed to be forgotten now.

"Watson," he began, puffing out his chest self-importantly, "You may not have heard, but I am now an instructor at Netley. I've been there just over four years, and recently have been asked to organize a new course on battlefield surgery techniques."

I had in fact known of Dr. Sykes's appointment at Netley, having read of it in the papers, but forbore to mention this and merely nodded in understanding and waited for him to continue.

"Well, this is to be a course where students will learn what injuries to expect on the battlefield, and how best to treat those injuries under fire, so to speak. It is to be a series of lectures, actually, with visiting lecturers who will speak in their own areas of expertise. And this is where you come in, Watson. I want you to lead the lectures series."

I felt my jaw drop open as I stared at him in disbelief. But he cut me off with a wave of his large hands as he went on.

"I know you were a field surgeon during the Afghan War," he elaborated. "I heard what happened to you at Maiwand and during the retreat to Kandahar. Who better to speak on battlefield first aid and surgery techniques than a man who has actually experienced such techniques, not only as a surgeon providing care to wounded men, but also as a wounded man on the receiving end of said techniques?" He leaned back in his chair to gauge my reaction.

I confess to my complete and utter surprise at his words. Whatever I had expected that he wanted from me, this proposal was certainly not it. I was completely dumbfounded, and found myself struggling to form a coherent thought, much less clear words.

Though I had considered applying for a position at Netley after my return from Afghanistan, such an idea had been negated at first by my uncertain health and the fact that the Army had forbidden me to seek work during my recovery leave. Later, I found myself firmly entrenched in Baker Street and in my work with Sherlock Holmes. After my marriage, I was completely fulfilled with my general practice, and at this point, after all these years, all thoughts of Netley had long since left my consciousness.

"Well,.. I… er," I stammered in surprise, as a huge grin formed on my companion's large red face. He continued to watch me in anticipation, as I fumbled for words to convey my thoughts.

"But," I said confusedly. "Why me? I have no teaching experience; and Afghanistan was a very long time ago. I am just a general practitioner now, and very rarely do surgery. Surely there are many doctors who would be better suited to lead such a course."

Evidently Dr. Sykes had expected such an argument for he sat forward again, gesturing excitedly with his arms as he spelled out his reasoning.

"Yes, yes, I know that you were wounded out relatively early in your career, you've never taught a course, and that you have been doing general family practice for many years now" he said. "But, Maiwand and the ensuing retreat was one of the greatest military failures our nation has ever experienced. More men actually died during the retreat than in the battle itself. As one of only a handful of survivors," - here he managed to completely disregard my wince of discomfort before ploughing on - "you have a unique perspective on what happened and what went wrong. This could be a tremendous learning opportunity for our students. Don't you see; you are the perfect man for the job."

I continued to shake my head in disbelief. "But I have my work here. What about my patients? And the hospital? I couldn't possibly teach a course at Netley and maintain my work here!" My thoughts were even more disjointed than my words. _Am I even capable of_ _doing this? What horrors would it bring back?_ My war-induced nightmares had decreased over time, but Maiwand continued to haunt me these many years later. Teaching a course based on my experiences in Afghanistan could only serve to re-open the floodgates of memories that I had long buried and attempted to forget.

Yet, even as I rejected the idea, I could well see Sykes' point about the best instructor for a class on field surgery and battlefield injuries being a man who had experienced those things first hand. It made perfect sense. And I had to admit that I'd often wished I could share my experiences with the next generation of field surgeons, seeing how unprepared I myself had been in those early days for the realities of battlefield medical care.

A tiny seed of desire to accept the position began to grow in my heart. This could be an opportunity beyond my wildest dreams and expectations. It could be a turning point in the rest of my life.

"You would have to live on the grounds at Netley, for at least the first nine weeks of the course," Dr. Sykes interjected, interrupting my swirling thoughts. "If you'd prefer it, you could be in charge of the first half of term, up until fall break, and we could get someone else to take over the second half. I did have a few other fellows to speak to, in case you refused the position," he said a trifle condescendingly, implying that he'd known full well that I'd have objections.

I bristled a little at this, and so perhaps spoke more forcefully that was my usual wont. "Dr. Sykes, in addition to my medical work, I am also partner to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. I assume you've heard of him?"

"Yes, I've heard of Mr. Holmes, and I was aware that you had worked with him in the past. In fact, I've been reading quite a bit about Mr. Holmes these last few months, since he returned from – Switzerland, was it? He'd been gone for some time I understand, and you, along with the rest of the world, presumed him dead." Sykes met my eyes shrewdly at this, and an inkling of his actual agenda reached me.

Aha, so this job offer was just another excuse to gain information about Holmes and his doings. Perhaps he thought that I, as a known close colleague of Sherlock Holmes, would increase enrollment somehow. I sighed wearily, and was preparing to speak when Sykes cut me off.

"Now, Watson, this is not an attempt to spy on Mr. Holmes. We really want you to lead this course. The fact that your name is known as companion to Mr. Sherlock Holmes is rather an unexpected bonus." He raised his hand to forestall my objections as I again opened my mouth to speak.

"You are a well-known man because of your association with Mr. Holmes, Watson. But you are also well-known in your own right. Several doctors here at the hospital have recommended you to me, old chap, along with your former neighbour, Anstruther, and Stamford, also. I've spoken to doctors and other men you served with. And I have kept up with you myself." I was genuinely amazed to hear these words coming from this man who used to regard me with utter contempt during our university years.

I was even more surprised when he continued. "You are well-read, you've kept up with new developments in medicine, and you have a peculiar understanding of psychological afflictions resulting from battlefield trauma. You've quietly been researching and publishing articles in medical journals. You are familiar with the problem of narcotic addiction following injuries, and are knowledgeable about diseases contracted in foreign climes. You have worked as a police surgeon. You are an eloquent speaker, and a gifted story-teller, as many of your patients can attest, and as your stories demonstrate. And you are a damn fine surgeon. I repeat: you are the perfect man for the job." At this Dr. Sykes leaned back again, folded his arms, and waited for my response.

I must admit to finding myself speechless again, as my mind whirled with the unexpected compliments, and the possibilities of this opportunity. A large part of me wanted to accept this position. And yet another part of me balked at the responsibility it would entail and the changes it would necessitate. And after just returning to Baker Street at Holmes' insistence, I knew that he would not be best pleased at the thought of me leaving his side again.

I needed some time to consider the offer, and to garner some advice. After some additional discussion, our interview finally concluded with me agreeing to think about the proposition for a few days before giving Dr. Sykes my final decision. We parted ways then, he to go back to Netley, and myself heading to Baker Street, to discuss the news with Sherlock Holmes.

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To be continued. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	2. Chapter 2

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I stared out of the cab without seeing anything for most of the ride back to Baker Street. As we clopped slowly along, I took advantage of my isolation and the quiet to spend some time in thought. This proposition of Sykes' had taken me completely by surprise. Never had I thought or even imagined that I would be offered such an opportunity. It was beyond my wildest dreams. And I had much to decide.

I leaned back, closing my eyes, remembering the last time I had considered applying to Netley as an instructor. It was not long after Holmes' disappearance and supposed death. Upon my arrival back in London I had felt at something of loose ends. My life had been so entwined with Holmes' for so many years that I found it difficult to face being in London without him. Every street, every landmark served to bring memories of him and of our cases to my mind.

Mary had sensed my discomfort and sadness, and after several week had insisted that we have a serious talk. During that time I had tried to explain my feelings to her, and dear sweet woman that she was, Mary had understood. We had discussed our future then; whether to stay in London, relocate to another practice in another city, or to again attempt Netley. After several days of discussion, seeking advice from fellow doctors, and even speaking with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft Holmes, I had decided to remain in Kensington. I had never regretted that choice, although I know Mary had had doubts as to the wisdom of my decision.

But I had known that London was my home, and though I missed Holmes dreadfully and walking past Baker Street caused almost physical pain, we had made the correct choice. My practice slowly but steadily grew and I became very busy with my medical work. At the invitation of Inspector Lestrade, I began to serve Scotland Yard as police surgeon. I had also discovered something of a second career as a researcher, and several of my articles on nervous legions had been well-received in medical journals. After Mary's illness was diagnosed, I was more certain than ever that I had made the right decision, and Netley had passed completely out of my thoughts.

And now this… I shook my head ruefully at the timing of this opportunity. Years before I would have given anything to be asked to teach at Netley. I was flattered even now to be considered for a post. But with Holmes newly returned and our practice busier than ever, it seemed ironic that the invitation should come at this point.

How would Holmes react to this personal opportunity for me? My role was and always had been that of biographer, chronicler, "Boswell", as it were. I was the follower in our partnership, and a perfectly willing one, too, content to follow his lead and to fade into the background in our cases. I knew he relied on me, as an assistant, a companion, and as a sounding board for his deductions. What would he think of me leaving him now, just as he had returned?

So deep in thought was I that I barely registered that we had arrived at Baker Street until the cabbie's voice intruded upon my musings.

"Gov'," he said warily. "We're here, sir."

"Yes, thank you." I replied, tossing his fare and a tip up to him and clambering slowly out of the cab. I glanced up at the windows of our sitting room. It was still early and Mrs. Hudson had not yet closed the blinds and drawn the curtains for the evening. I wondered now how Holmes' interview had gone and if he had returned from the newspaper offices yet.

As I stood gazing at the windows, there was a slight movement, and then I noticed Holmes standing there looking down at me. He raised his eyebrows slightly at me in greeting, and then stepped back away from the window.

I sighed. I had intended to use the ride back to Baker Street to work out what I wanted to say to Holmes, but had been so wrapped up in my thoughts and doubts that I still had no idea how to broach the subject to him. But now there was nothing for it; I had to gather my courage and wits and speak.

Entering the front hallway, I stopped for a moment to speak to Mrs. Hudson, who came bustling out from the kitchen as she heard me come in.

"Hello, doctor. How was your day?" our good landlady asked, smiling in welcome as I removed my hat and gloves, placing them on the sideboard in the hall.

"It was fine, Mrs. Hudson, just fine." I answered. "I see that Mr. Holmes has returned."

"Oh, yes," she said, lowering her voice and glancing quickly up the stairs. "He's been back for some time, and pacing away, too, upstairs. I don't think that interview went too well, you know."

"Oh dear," I replied. "What makes you say that, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well," she answered, lowering her voice even more. "He came banging in and right up to the sitting room he went. Never said a word to me. And he's been smoking and pacing ever since." Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly.

_Then he probably_ _isn't in a very good mood,_ I thought. _Not the best time to bring up a_ _difficult topic_. Now what in the world was I going to do?

I was dragged out of my thoughts by Mrs. Hudson asking if I'd had dinner yet.

"No. I stopped for a drink with a colleague, but haven't eaten yet. I'm famished, in fact." I truly was hungry, but more worried about broaching the subject of Dr. Sykes' proposition to Holmes than anything else.

"Well, good," she answered. "I had been counting on you for supper, as Mr. Holmes doesn't seem likely to eat much in the mood he's in." She sniffed a little in disapproval, but then her face smoothed back out into a smile. "Your supper will be ready in just a bit, doctor; I'll have it right up for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I responded. "I'll see if I can get Holmes to cheer up and eat a little, too." I called after her as she hurried back into the kitchen to finish her preparations.

Deciding I could stall the inevitable no longer, I started up the stairs to the sitting room. I could hear Holmes' pacing footsteps as I advanced.

Opening the door warily, it was immediately apparent that Holmes had been back for some time and that indeed the interview had not gone as he had hoped. The floor of the room, which had been quite clear when I left that morning, was now covered in an assortment of newspapers, letters, case notes and records, with a fine coating of pipe and cigarette ash. Holmes himself was again standing at the window, pipe in mouth, staring out at the people passing by below.

He grunted a welcome as he heard my step enter the room, not turning from the window and puffing pensively on his pipe.

"Holmes," I muttered by way of greeting as I picked my way gingerly across the floor to my armchair and seated myself with a weary sigh. The busy day at the hospital, coupled with Dr. Sykes' unexpected request and now the prospect of broaching the subject of my leaving Baker Street to Holmes all combined to exhaust my mind and spirit, so that I felt quite limp and weary.

I looked up to find Holmes examining me in that quick, aloof manner of his.

"Well, Watson," said he. "You have news to share with me, and if your countenance bears any indication of its importance, the news must be earth-shaking indeed. What is it, my dear fellow?" He said these words kindly, but there was a wary look in his eyes, which revealed that he had, indeed, noticed my distracted manner.

"Well, yes, Holmes," I began gingerly. "I do have something to discuss with you. I've just been thinking how to begin, actually." Now that it came to it, I felt no more confident in the outcome of this conversation than I had earlier. There was nothing for it but to jump in with both feet, as it were.

Holmes, seeming to recognize my discomfort and trepidation, seated himself in his armchair opposite me, steepled his fingers, and regarded me with a kindly eye.

"My dear Watson, I am all attention. Pray proceed."

Taking a deep breath, I began. "Well, you see, Holmes, I happened to run across an old acquaintance at Bart's today."

"Mmhm," said Holmes, raising an eyebrow at me. "An acquaintance, Watson?"

Holmes' raised eyebrow only served to make me more nervous so that I fidgeted uneasily in my chair.

"Well, more of a colleague, really," I said in reply. "Dr. Oliver Sykes. He was two years ahead of me at university."

"I see," said Holmes. "How extraordinary that you should run into him. You had lost touch?" he queried.

"Um, yes. We were never great friends, Holmes. In fact, I was quite surprised that he even remembered my existence at all. I haven't heard anything from or about him in several years." I continued to verbally flounder as I tried to decide what to say. I knew I was only delaying the inevitable, but this conversation was making me feel quite uncomfortable.

"Yet he was looking for you at Bart's today," Holmes commented. I could feel his sharp eyes boring into me, and squirmed again. I was momentarily distracted to realize that he had somehow known that Sykes was looking specifically for me, but struggled on.

"Yes, he was. In fact, Holmes, Sykes is now an instructor at Netley." I glanced up at him, wondering what else he had deduced.

"Oh, at Netley. I see." Holmes again turned his sharp gaze on me. Suddenly he leaned forward in his chair. "Watson, whatever you must tell me, just get on with it. This beating around the bush is becoming quite tiresome. Now, what did Dr. Oliver Sykes, former classmate, and present instructor at Netley, want with you?"

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and began again.

"Well, Holmes," I began. "As I said, Sykes is now an instructor at Netley. And he has been put in charge of organizing a course, a series of lectures actually on field surgery and war-time injuries. And he's asked me to teach the course." I finished quickly, before my courage ran out, and then sat still, watching Holmes closely for his reaction.

Holmes continued to sit quite still, as if lost in thought, puffing slowly on his pipe, although he did raise one eyebrow questioningly. I waited for some time, but then began to speak quickly again, almost stammering.

"You see, they were looking for someone who had experienced war-time injuries and field surgery first-hand. So many doctors have the book knowledge, but not many have practical experience on the battlefield. And I, having experienced such as both a doctor and a patient myself, came to Sykes' mind. Or, at least that's how he described the situation to me. It's really quite flattering, and a wonderful opportunity."

I continued to eye Holmes apprehensively. He was still sitting quietly, and had made no response to my announcement. I began to feel an unexpected empathy for our clients, who sat squirming and apprehensive as they waited for Holmes' thoughts on their cases. As I waited, he raised his eyes and looked at me.

"And what have you decided about this, Watson?" he asked me at last. I watched him carefully for any indications of his thoughts on the matter, but no signs were forthcoming.

"I'm not entirely sure what to think, to tell the truth. You know that I at one point had great hopes of teaching at Netley, but that was many years ago. I've barely even thought of the place since my marriage," I responded.

"Yes, I remember, Watson. If I recall rightly, you entertained hopes of a position there when I first met you, though your situation precluded it at the time. And now you have been offered a position just as you had hoped. What do you intend to do? Do you want to accept this position?" Holmes was looking at me seriously and I knew that he was able to discern my thoughts and doubts on the matter.

"Yes, I think I do. As I said, it's a wonderful opportunity. But there's more to think of. I'd have to live there, you know, at least for the first part of the fall term. That's at least nine weeks." I looked at him again then, partially afraid of what he might say.

"Nine weeks. I see." Holmes nodded as he digested this fact, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Well, Watson, nine weeks, while it is a considerable time, is not forever. Can your work here in London spare you for that long?"

"Yes, I believe so. In any case, this is not a permanent position as of yet. I can certainly resume my work at Bart's upon my return. But nine weeks _is_ a long time, Holmes, really. Can you make do without me for that time?"

"Certainly I can make do without you." Holmes answered swiftly. Then seeing the hurt in my eyes he continued. "Oh, my dear fellow, I didn't mean it like that. I can make do without you, but that does not mean that you will not be sorely missed. I shall just have to endeavor not to take on anything dangerous in your absence. It would not do to face a dangerous criminal without my Boswell at my back." He grinned at me then, which did much to soothe the momentary sting of his earlier words.

I grinned back at him. "No, that wouldn't do at all," I agreed.

"And Netley is not so far away, you know, Watson. I might be able to tear myself away from this cesspool occasionally," he twinkled at me. "I believe the train service is rather good."

"And I could come home on an occasional weekend, too," I said hopefully. "I believe, from what Sykes said, that weekends would be my own, to write up lectures and grade papers, and such. I could do that just as easily here."

"Spoken like a true professor already, my boy!" Holmes said then, laughing a little at my eagerness. "Professor John H. Watson, M.D. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think, old fellow?"

I smiled back then, feeling relief flood through me as the fact that Holmes approved of this opportunity sank into my mind.

"Now," said he, leaning forward and rubbing his hands briskly. "When must you leave?"

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_Thanks so much for the kind reviews and encouragement! They are very much appreciated!_


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